


You're not really here, are you?

by thecannabiskid



Category: Mr. Robot (TV)
Genre: M/M, part of the Cold series read this after reading the others, set right after episode six
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-22
Updated: 2015-08-22
Packaged: 2018-04-16 13:24:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4626849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thecannabiskid/pseuds/thecannabiskid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Elliot tells Mr. Robot he isn't real. Mr. Robot proves him wrong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You're not really here, are you?

**Author's Note:**

> I had this almost finished before episode 8. I had about a thousand words left to write. After episode eight I just.... Didn't work on it. Here it is.

            Vera tosses him the keys. “You just didn’t realize she was with you the whole time, bro.” Vera gets in the car. Why does he feel sick? Is it because somewhere in the back of his mind, that part that itches when something is too good to be true, is on fire. On fire. On _fire._ The whole time he was working. Did Darlene know? He’s opening the trunk.

            She’s there. God she’s beautiful. His throat is tight. The sirens are loud. Sensory overload. It’s too loud. He’s breathing hard. She was with him. Blue and red lights dye his skin. He pulls up his hoodie and runs.

            He should have hit Mr. Robot. On the stairs. How did he get in? How did he get into his complex? How did he know? How did he know? How. Did. He. Know.

            He pukes, he’s running and he fucking vomits on himself. It burns his nose. He can’t stop running. Shayla’s dead. How does he tell Flipper? Fuck, how’s he gonna tell Qwerty? How does he tell Angela? Does he tell Angela? Does he tell her that Shayla mentioned taking her to dinner as a surprise? Sunshine, she told him once it was her code name, like how kids come up with names for drugs. Like pizza. Cobbler. He smiled when she said Raspberry Pie. Did she know about it? Did she know she was Sunshine?

            Sunshine. He throws up again. Did she know? God, did she know how important she was to Shayla?

He trips on a turn, almost rolls into the street and he’s scrambling to get back up. He hurts. He hurts everywhere. He couldn’t save her. He couldn’t fucking save her and he can barely see, tears in his eyes threatening to spill over. He doesn’t take the subway. He runs. It takes two hours to get home.

            He stumbles up the stairs, slips, his side hits the step and he lets out a sob. He could just lie here. He could lie here. Maybe it’s all a dream. Shayla will find him on the steps. Tell him to be more careful. She wasn’t in the trunk. It wasn’t her. Couldn’t have been her. She’s just out late. With friends. She’s out late with friends.

            He pulls himself up the steps. Mr. Robot was right. She was dead the second this started. If he could go back, God, if he could go back. He can still hear her muffled cries. _Elliot. Elliot!_ If he could just go back. Take back the first thing he ever said to her. _I’ll buy morphine from you._ Take it back. Take it back. _Take. It. Back._

            He tried begging. _Please man._ This was on him. Not Shayla. He got her killed.

            He unlocks his front door. Looks over at Shayla’s door before setting foot in his own home. He’ll never see her again. Flipper is crying. Barking. Yipping. He hasn’t fed her.

 

            “These guys aren’t playing around, they will fucking kill you, wise up and let’s go.” Elliot walks up the stairs.

            “No.” The memory is fuzzy.

            “She knew exactly what she was getting herself into.” Mr. Robot lets out an annoyed laugh. “You think his employees have a long life expectancy?” He doesn’t listen to him. He doesn’t want to hear this. “Zero sum, Elliot. You’re playing a game you already lost. You know I’m right.” Mr. Robot watches him, can see his jaw lock and unlock.

            “There’s gotta be a way. I can think of a way.”

            “I get it kiddo,” his voice is soft. Elliot feels a little calmer, can feel the storm coming. “You wanna help people, watch over them. The best thing you can do for Shayla now is to allow her to become a memory.” Elliot shakes his head.

            “No.”

            “True courage is about being honest with yourself, even when it’s difficult. There’s no plan where you and Shayla come out alive.” He wants to scream.

 

            Flipper nips at him. He pours her food into a bowl. Unzips his jacket. He tosses it in the sink. Strips as he walks to the bathroom, clothing trailing after him. He turns the shower on.

 

            “Look at what you accomplished at Steel Mountain!” He takes a step down the stairs.

            “That got us nowhere!”

 

            He scrubs himself raw with a wash cloth. Rakes his fingers through his hair, steps out of the shower when there are no more suds. He turns the water off and he’s got to clean the tub. Bleach. He sits and waits. Has to drain the tub in twenty minutes.

 

            “You took them down. You won that battle. This, this is failure.” He spaces out.

He scrubs the tub, rinses the bleach. Flipper scratches at the door, he ignores it.

 

            I, Elliot Alderson am…. What? He had taken another step down the stairs. Mr. Robot’s eyes burning into him. He feels like a computer board. Mr. Robot is his hand drill. He’s going to be destroyed. He yanks the front of Mr. Robot’s shirt and kisses him hard. Bites him. This might be the last time he gets to do this.

            I, _Elliot Alderson_ am…. What?

            I, Elliot Alderson _am_ …. What?

            _What?_

            He flinches out of his daze. This is a dangerous game. His head hurts. He lets out a sob and drags himself to his feet, digs through the cabinet.

Lighter. Joints Shayla gave him. He puts the tin it’s all in on the toilet seat. Throws a few towels over the sink.

            The water is loud. Crashes against the bright white of the tub and he’s shaking. He shoves the tin off the toilet seats, flips the lid up and vomits. Flipper howls. He doesn’t move from the toilet. Lets wave after wave of nausea hit him. Let it out. His ribs ache. He can feel the cold sweat on his forehead. “You’re okay,” he whispers, dry heaves once, twice, three times, “you’re okay, you’re okay, you’re okay.” And after a few minutes he feels okay. After ten minutes he feels a little better than okay. He drains the tub and fills it back up again. He’s freezing.

            He’s got the tin on the floor. Slides into the tub and leans over to grab a spliff, he lights it.

            It probably wasn’t the best idea to smoke the whole joint. His body tingles. He can’t feel his skin against the tub. He closes his eyes and relaxes.

           

            “Are you _sure_ this is the right way?” He blinks. Angela. Her hair is in a French braid. It’s so short. He nods.

            “This way.” They’re young. Running away together. They take turns carrying the backpack. Waters, sandwiches, a blanket and one folded up map of the city. This time they leave for good. Angela holds his hand tighter when they walk across the street. They stay away from areas that aren’t heavily populated to decrease the risk of being kidnapped. They aren’t going back this time. They’re leaving for good.

            “Yo, Elliot!” Angela is still walking, drags him along as he looks back. “Imma hug you when this is finished.” He swallows thickly. Turns to face forward and runs into Vera. He’s older. Angela isn’t there. Isaac is on the grass bleeding. “Look at him,” he’s squeezing his face, forces him to look at Isaac. “Look,” it echoes in his ears.

            “-iot.” Distance. “-liot.” The scenery begins to run together. Orange jumpsuits bleed into night blue grass, chain link fences melt against the black of the sky. Isaac melts into the grass. His blood bubbles. He can’t breathe. Something fills his ears. “Kid.”

 

            He jolts awake. Sends water splashing over the edge of the tub,

            “Let go,” he yells, struggles to fully sit up. “Let me go,” he can still feel Vera’s grip on his face.

            He looks around frantic. Had Shayla panicked like this on the inside when he woke her up while she was in the bath? He should grab his backpack. Leave. Move. Back to Jersey? “Elliot.”

            “Back,” he sobs, “couldn’t get her back.”

            “Let’s get you out of the tub, kid.” The water looks like rust. Is he bleeding? His hair is wet. Was he under the water? He coughs. Can’t stop coughing. The edges of his vision is black. Everything spins.

            He smells like blood. Mr. Robot rolls his sleeves up and pulls the rubber stopper out. He’s in and out of the bathroom. Changes the sheets on Elliot’s bed. They smell like lavender. Clean blankets smell the same. It’s almost overpowering.

            There’s a spray bottle in the bedding cupboard. Lavender oil. Helps insomnia. Anxiety. Mr. Robot changes the pillow cases.

            He can’t breathe, leans over the side of the tub and dry heaves. His stomach tightens. His ribs feel like they’re crushing his lungs on each breath. Mr. Robot has a cup, turns the water on and Elliot looks at him. His eyes are glassy. “It’s okay,” he murmurs, he shampoos and conditions Elliot’s hair. The soap foams up and looks rusted. He rinses his hair slowly, looking for the source of the bleeding. Along the center of his head. Not too deep. He scrubs Elliot the best he can, moves back when the kid leans forward, hard against the tub and dry heaves. He’s bruised. About sixty-percent of his body has deep purple bruises. Bleeding under the skin. Blues and purples mix with the black that bleeds out along the edges. Moving him is going to hurt.

            He dries him off in the tub. Starts with his hair. Gently dries his face and Elliot begins to panic. His breathing quickens. “Shh, shh, shh, kid, I’m right here. It’s okay.”

            “Couldn’t save her,” his body jerks forward and he manages to throw up. It’s white. Like foam.

            “I know kiddo,” he cleans up the mess on the floor, steps into the tub when he’s done and Elliot looks up at him. Hopeless. “I’m gonna help you stand up.” Elliot blinks. Mr. Robot is fuzzy. “Don’t thrash, kid.” He doesn’t understand until he’s being moved. Pain explodes behind his eyes. Is he yelling? His throat hurts. Mr. Robot is hushing him. Praising him. “Good job kid, good job.” He steps out of the tub slowly. Elliot weighs next to nothing and it’s easy to scoop him up. He manages to brush Elliot’s teeth. Being clean has always made him feel slightly better so he’s hoping it will help Elliot. “Spit, kid.” He’s holding him up, he spits in the sink, toothpaste gritty between his teeth. He rinses. Spits again.

            He leans into Mr. Robot. He smells like cigarette smoke. Stale cigarette smoke. “She’s dead,” he chokes out, Mr. Robot feels his body shake with each sob. He carries him to the mattress. Puts him in bed and he’s going to grab briefs for him but he’s curled up in the fetal position. Naked. Dead asleep. Mr. Robot pulls the blankets up over Elliot. He gets comfortable on the couch and waits.

 

            “We’re _lost_ , Elliot. You don’t know how to read maps.” Elliot’s face scrunches up.

            “Do too.”

            “Can we go home?” She says softly. She’s scared. Elliot nods.

            He gets spanked. “Next time you run away don’t come back.” He doesn’t get dinner.

            He’s older. Angela smiles sweetly at him. He’s still as the world moves around him. Blurs of color. “Wanna get high?” He nods. They play the joystick box that hooks up to the front of the TV. Angela prefers Mappy over Pac-Man. She smiles at him but something isn’t right. This doesn’t feel real. Did this happen? No. She was crying when they played this. Always crying. She’s too happy. He moves to stand and he feels like he’s falling.

 

            He jolts awake, gasping for air and gripping at the sheets. “No,” he chokes out. Tunnel vision. The room is dark.

            “Kid,” he’s back against the wall fast, breathing hard. He feels sweaty. The light clicks on and it’s too bright. He squints. The pillows are on the floor and the bricks are cold against his back. _Fuck_. He’s naked. Why is he naked? He yanks the blanket up over himself. There’s a cold washcloth being pressed against his forehead. The figure is blurry.

            “Where are my clothes?” He can’t hear his own words.

            “You’re okay,” he blinks. Mr. Robot?

            “This isn’t real?” He whispers, moves to get off the bed. His body hurts. Specifically his ribs. He can’t feel his legs.

            “Careful,” Mr. Robot warns when Elliot’s knees shake. “Let me help,” he gets Elliot to sit back down. He gets him a pair of briefs and Elliot pulls them on.

            “Gotta get Shayla, need to help her.” He has to wake up. He’s dreaming, right? He’s dreaming. He pushes Mr. Robot. Fuck. He’s solid. “No,” Elliot says. Touches him again. Tears well up in his eyes and he’s standing up. “No,” his voice is broken and Mr. Robot catches him when his knees give out. “No.”

            “Let it out kiddo,” he whispers and he moves him back to the bed. “Rest, Elliot.”

            “This isn’t real.” He chokes, “Shayla,” Mr. Robot swallows hard.

            “Relax, Elliot.” He feels like he’s drowning.

            “Need to help her,” he whispers and there are tears dripping down his face. He runs a hand through his hair. “Gotta find a way to keep us both alive.”       

            “She’s gone, kiddo.” He whispers and Elliot looks at him. Eyes flick between his face and the door. “There’s nothing you can do, Elliot.”

            “Just gotta wake up.” He says it slowly and Mr. Robot sits on the couch until Elliot wears himself out. He dozes off between sentences. _Gotta save her._ _Gotta wake up._

 

            He catches the keys. Vera doesn’t say a word and when he drives off he opens the trunk. Ollie. His throat is slashed. Guess he’ll have to see what comes next for Angela. Shayla’s a good match. He closes the trunk. Angela will get over this, in time. They can play Mappy. Get high. Watch movies. It will be okay.

 

            He wakes up, sun leaks into his room and he sits up. He doesn’t feel well and something smells good. He slides slowly out of bed. Did Darlene break in again? “Shit,” he groans and Mr. Robot is staring at him when he looks up from his bruised and shaking hands. Did he get in a fight? He can’t remember.

            “Easy,” Mr. Robot murmurs, guides him to the couch and Elliot groans. “Making breakfast,” he says and Elliot nods. His head hurts and Mr. Robot’s hands leave his body and he looks back at his own hands. He’s shaking. Mr. Robot brings him coffee. Milk. Sugar. It’s good. His hands shake the cup.

            “Should call Angela,” he says softly and Mr. Robot takes his cup and Elliot blinks a few times. He’s confused. Why…. Would he call Angela. Fuck. His head hurts.

            “Easy, Elliot, okay?” Elliot takes his coffee and nods slowly. Easy. Remember what happened.

            “What day is it?”

            “April 14th.” Mr. Robot says and he’s in the kitchen. When did he have food in his fridge? He doesn’t remember having milk. “Went to the store when you were sleeping.” He says, hands him a plate and Elliot stares at it. “You gotta try to eat.” He says softly and Elliot pushes the food around on his plate. Scrambled eggs. Sausage. Toast. Jam with butter coats each slice. He takes small bites. The fork clicks against his teeth. He really can’t stop shaking. Needs something to calm him down. Mr. Robot is pulling a joint from his pocket. Hands it to Elliot along with a lighter.            

            “Thanks,” he says slowly. It’s good. Must be from Romero.

            Once he’s decently high the food tastes good. He isn’t fond of jam but it’s okay. Mr. Robot doesn’t mind when Elliot finishes his own cup of coffee after Elliot’s own cup is gone. He’s starved. “Good to see you eat,” he says and Elliot makes a noise around a forkful of eggs. Flipper watches them and he smiles at her. She approaches him slowly.

            “What’s the matter?” He murmurs, he offers her a small piece of the toast.

            “You weren’t doing so hot last night, might have spooked her.” Mr. Robot says and Elliot frowns. He doesn’t remember that. It would explain why he’s so exhausted and he gives Mr. Robot a confused look. “Deep breaths kid, it’s okay. You can’t save everyone.” What is he talking about? Sure it was just Ollie but…. Why was it Ollie?

            “I know.” He says softly and Mr. Robot is giving him a look as he eats.

            He turns the TV on, plates and cup in hand when he hears it. “A woman was found in the trunk of a car with a frog bumper sticker,”

            “Kid, let me change the cha-“ the clacking of dishes as his hands shake hits him first. Then the loss of the dishes in his hands. It’s followed by the shattering sound of ceramic on wood floors. It’s all he hears. Ollie didn’t die. Shayla died. _Dangerous_. Dangerous to suppress something even if it was only for a few hours. His legs crumble beneath him. Mr. Robot doesn’t catch him in time; he’s crating Flipper so she doesn’t go near the glass.

            Elliot doesn’t move. He can feel the glass breaking the skin of his legs. Mr. Robot gets a broom, sweeps everything around Elliot into a pile before picking him up. It’s a hassle this early in the morning. “Got her killed,” he whispers. The tears are hot on his face. It he suppressed that, is Mr. Robot even real?

            “Not as bad as it looks. Do not move, kid.” He puts a towel under his feet, uses the cup from last night to pour cold water over his legs. It’s all large pieces of the plates. He removes each piece slowly. Elliot doesn’t flinch but the tears on his face run down in a steady stream. He rinses his legs again and the floor is wet, it soaks his into the knees of his pants. He patches him up. Band aids over all the cuts. He gets up and Elliot looks at him.

            “You were right,” his voice is heavy with sadness. “How did you get into the complex?” He blinks, more tears spill over. Mr. Robot frowns.

            “Walked through the front.”

            “You have to buzz in.” Elliot says slowly and he swallows. Everything’s felt so _real_ since the withdrawal. His face pressed against the wall of the hotel. The ache he felt in his ass every time he walked. It stuck. Just like the way Tyrell had clapped his hands on his shoulders. But he hadn’t thought about Tyrell when they finished. He thought about Mr. Robot. How utterly fucking insane he was. How the thought of it increased his adrenaline. The heat he felt singed into his back. Real. The way his stomach wobbled on the ferris wheel when the cabin made a rotation. The way his briefs stuck to him, his cum almost an adhesive by the time he made it home. He had to get in the bath with his briefs on to get them off. Real. The bruises from the skeeball machine. He had asked to kiss him. Real. The scrape on his forehead from the alley. They spoke. Real. The joystick bruise from the Pac-Man machine. Real. The counter at the arcade. _Good job, Elliot_ and Mr. Robot is giving him this unbelievable look. Real.

            “Go ahead and ask what you’re gonna ask, kiddo, maybe you’ll hear how it sounds.” He sits on the edge of the tub and waves his hand at Elliot. “Go on.”

            “You’re…. You’re not really here, are you?” He chokes back a sob, “please be real. Please be real. Please. Be. Real.”

            “Elliot,” his voice is soft.

            “I’m schizo,” Elliot whispers, hands in his hair. He tugs. “I’m fucking _insane._ ” He stands up and Mr. Robot doesn’t stop him. “I gotta walk Flipper.” He says and he lets out a hysterical laugh. “I’m talking to myself.” He runs a hand over his face, pulls a pair of sweatpants on carefully, finds a t-shirt, and he has trouble lifting his arms. He hooks Flipper to her leash and carries her so she doesn’t step on any glass that could still be on the floor.

            She tries walking him far from the complex. “Not today,” he says softly and she whines. Nothing feels real. All those times. Could he have convinced himself? The ache as he walked. The patchouli and lemongrass and expensive cologne, was it fake? The smell of rain before it hits the asphalt. All made up. How deep did this rabbit hole go? Was Darlene real? Her comments hurt like she was real. Kicked dog if the dog had goldfish eyes. Had people stared at the two of them when he was distraught over Flipper? Flipper drags him back to the apartment. God he feels sick.

            He drags his feet as he goes up the stairs. His mother would have snapped at him about that. He makes a face but picks up his feet.

            Mr. Robot is pacing. His pants are off as well. “Had to clean the water in the bathroom, pants got soaked.” Elliot nods. He strips out of his sweats. One of the band aids pulls off and he grits his teeth. Half of them are soaked with blood and Mr. Robot is dragging him back to the bathroom. He didn’t think they would keep bleeding this badly, they weren’t very deep.

            He apologizes with each band aid he removes and Elliot spaces out. Fuck. This isn’t real. “This isn’t real.” He says softly and Mr. Robot is humming. He knows the tune. He can’t place it.

            “Explain to me how this isn’t real, Elliot.” Mr. Robot says and he’s putting new band aids over the cuts.

            “You gotta buzz,” he swallows, “gotta buzz to get into the apartment.” His mouth is dry. “You gotta…. Buzz the door.”

            “That’s all you’re going off of?” He laughs and Elliot nods. “Kiddo,” he presses another band aid over the cut. “That’s not a solid theory.”

            “No one looks at you when you’re in public. I’ve seen it.” His voice is shaking.

            “Easy to ignore loud people, Elliot, we’re in the city. Look at me, easy to ignore.” Fuck. He’s right.

            “No.” He whispers. “The others aren’t real either. I’m running around playing…. Superhero and getting people killed.” He’s sobbing. Sniffles and Mr. Robot is cleaning up the wrappers from the band aids and Elliot is considering poking Mr. Robot’s eye. Can something not real cry? He can get angry. Stupid. Don’t do that. “Please be real,” he chokes out and Mr. Robot locks eyes with him. Thumbs away a few tears and Elliot leans into the touch.

            “Think you can stand up?” He nods and moves slowly. He can’t walk. He hurts so badly he can feel it in his hair. “Hurts,” he groans and Mr. Robot picks him up. “Fu-fuck,” he grips onto him and Mr. Robot moves him to the bed.

            “You might wanna rethink me not being real,” he murmurs ad Elliot snivels.

            “No one at Allsafe even looked at you,” he whispers and Mr. Robot is humming again.

 

            Elliot watches him lazily, he cleans up the glass, let’s Flipper out of her kennel and cleans. He’s exhausted. Keeps murmuring he isn’t real and Mr. Robot’s shucked most of his layers. “Can I make you tea, kiddo, anything?”

            “You’re not real.” Elliot says slowly, voice hitching and he closes his eyes, half expects Mr. Robot to be gone when he opens them. He isn’t.

            “Christ,” he runs a hand over his face. “Fine! I’m not real.” He says and Elliot frowns, curls up in bed and Mr. Robot is sitting down next to him. “Elliot,” he’s crying again. “Bud,” he lies down next to him.

            “I want you to be real.” He can’t breathe.

            “Kid,” and Elliot kisses him. It’s quick and Mr. Robot sits up, leans back hard against the bricks and Elliot sits up. “Still not real?” Elliot nods. Everything feels hazy. He sits on his lap and Mr. Robot drags his knees up, gives Elliot some support. 

            He runs his fingers over Mr. Robot’s jaw, drags his index finger over his lips and Mr. Robot nips his finger. Elliot’s breathing stutters. “Please be real,” his voice shakes and Mr. Robot licks at the pad of Elliot’s index finger.

            “It’s been a rough forty-eight hours.” He says softly and Elliot takes a shaky breath and nods. “It’s gonna be okay, kid,” Mr. Robot looks like he’s going to cry. “I’m real. I’m right here.”

            “Prove it.” The kiss he gets is filthy and unexpected. The wet noise of Mr. Robot kissing him, all tongue, hands cupping his face and when he pulls back Mr. Robot lets out a weak laugh, it turns hungry in an instance when Elliot’s tongue flicks out, touches Mr. Robot’s bottom lip. The next kiss is crushing. He’s careful with his hands, doesn’t want to press too hard on Elliot’s bruises. He pulls back for air and Elliot swivels his hips, has Mr. Robot giving a short thrust upwards and Elliot grinds down hard. He works his briefs off and Mr. Robot follows suit, doesn’t complain when Elliot undresses him.

            “Jesus kid,” his voice is low and concerned as thick fingers trace large bruises. “Lie back for me,” he murmurs and Elliot moves slowly, gets comfortable against the pillows and Mr. Robot watches him.

            Elliot didn’t know how sensitive his nipples were until Mr. Robot was breathing hot on them. He squirms before the nub gets licked. “Go-God,” he whimpers and the teeth, that does him in, the way they gently roll the bud. He blows a steady stream of cold air against it and Elliot’s hips jerk up. The other nipple gets the same treatment. He could pull his hair out.

            “Good boy,” he murmurs, Elliot lets out a low groan, shivers when Mr. Robot’s lips drag down his stomach.

            For the record Elliot’s cock is stunning. Not too thick, it’s still a mouthful though, about average and it has the slightest curve and he’s breathing against the head. “Fuck,” Elliot chokes out, Mr. Robot’s lips wrap about the tip, tongue tracing around the glans before working at the slit. Elliot’s breathing is harsh; he’s trying to lessen the pressure, keeps trying to twist from the brutal attack. Mr. Robot finally pulls off, lips a little swollen. He’s dripping and the other licks the pre-cum as it pools on the tip. He presses his fingers against Elliot’s lips.

            “Coat them,” he murmurs and Elliot’s mouth floods with saliva, he sucks on the fingers, swirls his tongue around them and Mr. Robot groans. He pulls his fingers slowly from Elliot’s mouth after a moment. “Being so good for me,” he murmurs and Elliot can feel the spit covered digit press against his entrance, he relaxes when the digit slide in, the second follows almost immediately and he’s shoving a hand through his own hair.

            “Ri-right _there,_ ” he moans, grinds down against the fingers when he grazes his prostate. He rubs the bundle; Elliot’s noises are wet, open mouthed gasps that climb higher the harder he rubs. “Gonn-“ Mr. Robot doesn’t stop and Elliot cums. Rope after rope against his chest and he’s fucking back down against his fingers.

            “ _Good boy, Elliot,_ ” he breathes and Elliot loves the aftershocks, the numbing sensation that rolls through his body when Mr. Robot keeps rubbing at his prostate.

            He doesn’t feel the loss of fingers at first; pliant in Mr. Robot’s hands as his legs are draped over his shoulders, heels against his sides. He feels warm breath, then the spread of his cheeks followed by the wet press of a tongue. Elliot whines, it’s a loud thing and his heels press gently against Mr. Robot’s sides when his tongue works past the muscle. Cold air, he tenses up and Mr. Robot’s tongue soothes over his hole before pressing back in. Fingers follow alongside his tongue and he wants to scream. It feels so good. Being worked opened this way, he feels _weightless_. He’s hard again and he touches the oversensitive skin of his length, hot flesh in his hand and he strokes himself. “Come on,” he’s breathless and Mr. Robot pulls away slow, bites at the insides of his thighs and Elliot is mewling.

            He feels Mr. Robot get off the bed, he doesn’t move, hears the faucet running and he tries to control his breathing. “Kiddo,” the bed dips and Elliot looks at him. “On top,” he says and he’s leaning against the bricks and Elliot’s heart practically stops. He gives Mr. Robot’s cock a firm stroke before leaning down to take it into his mouth. He coats it with spit before sitting up. He can see Mr. Robot holding back noises, “condom?”

            “No,” Elliot breathes and Mr. Robot lets out a stuttered moan, drags Elliot in for a kiss, he tastes like mint, he must have brushed his teeth and he’s guiding him down onto his cock.

            “My good boy,” he murmurs and Elliot is sliding down quickly, draws a low moan from the other man and when he’s fully seated he lets out a breathy groan before moving back up. He likes bouncing on Mr. Robot’s cock. Likes that he controls the pace. Likes that it’s driving Mr. Robot up a wall. “Little faster, Elliot,” he says between gritted teeth as Elliot does the exact opposite.

            He rides the tip, has Mr. Robot thrusting up just to stay inside him and he’s groaning. Elliot likes the control. But this might not even be real. He stills and Mr. Robot is murmuring soft encouragements.

            “How do I know you’re really real?” He’s almost panting and Mr. Robot lets out an annoyed laugh, drags Elliot off his cock and presses him back against the mattress. He hitches his leg over his shoulder and slides home, has Elliot letting out a shallow breath, his eyes roll back and forth and his mouth falls open on a moan.

            Mr. Robot is rough with him, bites him hard on the shoulder and Elliot it an absolute mess. “I’m real, Elliot.” He grunts, “I promise.” And Elliot is cumming. Fuck. Back arched, mouth open and Mr. Robot doesn’t stop nailing his sweet spot, Elliot’s nails dig into Mr. Robot’s shoulders and he’s making choked off sounds.

            The wet warmth that fills him when Mr. Robot cums is deliciously unexpected and he’s leaning up to kiss him. “Don’t move,” Elliot groans and Mr. Robot rolls them slowly so Elliot is against his chest, he strokes his back and Elliot is out in minutes.

           

            Mr. Robot is there when he wakes up, he’s been cleaned up and he’s curled up against him. “Hey kiddo,” he breathes and Elliot is sore. “Got your jacket cleaned up.” It takes him a moment to process the words. He had thrown up on his jacket. He had left it in the sink.

            “Okay,” he chokes and Mr. Robot is rubbing his back.

            “Stomach acid usually ruins black but it looks okay.” Elliot moves so he’s half lying on Mr. Robot, hugs onto him and he can hear the mans heart pounding.

            “You’re real,” he whispers and the sad laugh that leaves Mr. Robot’s mouth has Elliot hugging onto him tightly. “You’re real.”

            “Of course I’m real, Elliot.” Of course he’s real. Flipper sees him. He sees him. Darlene sees him. Romero sees him. Trenton sees him. Mobley sees him. He sees him. He sees him. He sees him. He’s real. He’s really here.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm always a slut for death dates of characters. Shayla died early morning April 13th. The time stamp on the photo at Steel Mountain said April 12th. Episode six follows immediately after episode five, making Shayla's death April 13th.  
> As always, I'm moira-af on tumblr and back2massie on twitter


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